


like I'm drowning

by jennycaakes



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Coping, Healing, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 09:40:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6699820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennycaakes/pseuds/jennycaakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monty and Miller are both dealing with the loss of someone they love. Healing is hard to do, but easier to do together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like I'm drowning

**Author's Note:**

> I don't want this to happen please @ the heavens if Minty happens don't let it be like this
> 
> I enjoy suffering.

“No,” Miller rasps. His voice cracks and shifts, as broken as the boy in his arms. “No, no, no, I just got you _back_.” His hand are frantic, pressing down on the wound from the bullet as he tries to stop the blood. “I just got you back,” he pleads with Bryan. “C’mon, we can get you to medical, and—”

“Nate,” Bryan whispers back. “It’s okay.” _No, no, no!_ “It’s okay,” Bryan says again, his voice thick. He coughs and blood drips down his chin. “I’m okay.” Miller lifts his hand to brush his thumb under his lip, catching the blood. “It—it’s okay.”

“It’s not _okay_ ,” he croaks. “Bella—Bellamy,” Miller shouts, tipping his head slightly to the side but unable to look up from Bryan. He’s so pale, so pale, so pale, and Miller can’t bring his color back no matter what he does. “ _Bellamy_!” he roars, desperate for his friend to come and fix this. Bellamy always finds a way to fix things, somehow, someway. “God, _Bryan,”_ Miller breaks, gasping for air as he tries to swallow a sob, leaning closer, trying to give this boy his own warmth, his own life. “You c-can’t…”

“Hey, hey,” Bryan tries again, his voice softer than before. He’s fucking dying and he’s comforting Miller. Bryan’s too good, too fucking good to die. “I got to see the ground.” He tries to lift his hand but it’s weak, it falls as Miller reaches out to tangle their fingers together one last time. “I got to be with _you_.”

“ _Bryan_ ,” he pleads. _Fight, fight, keep fighting, keep breathing_. “C’mon. We can—we can still—”

“It’s okay,” he says again, softer, softer. “I love you, it’s okay.”

 _It’s not_ , Miller thinks. But he crumbles again, “I love you.” Bryan needs to know. Before he goes. “I love you, God I love you.”

Bryan blinks. His lips part. “Be happy,” he breathes. It’s a whisper in the wind, faint, barely audible over the distant fighting where guns are firing and swords are clashing. “I’m…”

Bryan’s hand falls and his eyes fade, unfocused, distant, unseeing. Gone.

A feral sob rips out of Miller’s throat as he collapses over Bryan, his hands still moving to try and stop the blood despite the fact that his heart’s not pumping anymore. _No, no, no_ , _please_ , Miller cups Bryan’s cheeks and begs. _Please, please, no_. Lifeless, cold, _gone_ he’s _gone_.

“Miller,” Bellamy’s voice is surprisingly gentle. “C’mon, Miller, we have to keep moving.” Miller’s speaking, shouting maybe, angry broken words as he shakes off Bellamy’s hands from his shoulders. “ _Miller_ ,” Bellamy tries again. “Look at me, hey! Look at me!” Bellamy’s hands are then on Miller’s cheeks, callused thumbs brushing under his eyes wiping away tears. “We have to keep moving,” he says again. His eyes flicker to Bryan’s body and Bellamy swallows thickly. “I’m sorry,” he says weakly. “I’m so sorry, but we have to go.”

Bellamy reaches out for Miller’s hands, sticky, red, covered in blood, and forces him to his feet. “I can’t—” Miller cries. “Bellamy—”

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

It doesn’t bring him back.

\--

Monty searches desperately for his friends. Raven is okay. Jasper is okay. Harper is okay. Clarke is okay. Octavia is okay. Bellamy is okay. Miller is covered in blood. Some were fighting within the AI, a system Raven and Clarke worked out so they could keep themselves and bring people back, and others were fighting outside. With guns and war and real pain, real physical pain that the City or Light couldn’t block or numb. Miller was one of them, one of the ones on the outside. Wouldn’t go near a City of Light chip with a ten-foot pole, but was good with a gun.

Octavia is cleaning his hands, sticky and dark as she says something Monty can’t hear. Miller’s eyes are unseeing. Blank. And his hands are shaking. And Monty realizes with a start that it isn’t Miller’s blood that Octavia’s cleaning.

Bryan’s nowhere in sight.

Monty’s moving before he can realize it he’s sprinting. “ _Miller_!” Monty shouts, though it sounds like a sob. He weaves in and out through the crowd that separates them and Miller just barely tips his head in time to see Monty. He collides with Miller so forcefully that the boy stumbles, and Monty wraps his arms as tightly around him as tightly he can manage. “You’re alive,” he exhales against Miller’s shoulder. _Alive, alive, alive._ Broken, but alive. Not okay, but alive.

Monty’s never heard Miller’s voice shake as much as it does now. “My h-hands,” Miller forces out. He hasn’t wrapped his arms around Monty, and when Monty pulls back he finds Miller’s eyebrows drawn together. “They’re…”

“Hey, I got you,” Octavia says, carefully nudging Monty out of the way so she can grab his hands again. “We’ll clean them up, okay?”

Miller’s eyes are distant again but he nods anyway. He looks like he’s drunk, the overly-fluid motions that he makes. “So much blood,” he says quietly. “There was so much blood…”

\--

Miller sleeps on Bellamy’s couch.

Bellamy offers him the bed in his quarters but it feels too big, too empty, and Miller can’t take it. His father offers him a place in his quarters too but that feels weak, like he’s broken, and maybe Miller _is_ broken but he doesn’t need to admit it. And truthfully, despite watching them pull the remnant of the AI out of his neck, Miller worries about his father. Staying with Bellamy is different. It doesn’t feel like Miller’s completely shattered when he sleeps on Bellamy’s, just kind of like he’s too lazy to drag himself to his own quarters.

Bellamy looks at him like he’s broken.

Everyone looks at Miller like he’s broken.

“I talked to Kane today,” Miller says a few days after he first sets up on Bellamy’s couch. Bellamy and Kane are still repairing what was broken between them, so Bellamy arches a curious eyebrow at this. “They’re finding me new quarters,” Miller says. “When they have the time.”

“You can drag a bed in here,” Bellamy offers. “Stay here. It’s fine with me, Miller.”

“Shouldn’t be more than a few weeks.”

Bellamy sighs, sinking onto the edge of his bed before lowering his head into his hands.

\--

Despite the fact that Jasper spends most of his nights in the medical wing, Monty’s relieved to have moved out of the Green family quarters. It’s quieter in Jasper’s quarters, even when Jasper _is_ here. They’re farther from the generator so there’s no background hum. And the window faces directly south so the sunlight is never glaring through the window.

It's been weeks at this point. Weeks since his mother died. Weeks since she crumbled to the ground by Monty’s hand. Weeks since she took her last breath.

Weeks since he killed her.

Monty rolls on his side and forces the image out of his mind. The look in her eyes as she got one last glimpse of him. Like maybe she broke through. Like maybe she knew what was happening as she died. He squeezes his eyes shut as thought as he can, listening to the soft sounds of Jasper inhaling and exhaling from across the room.

Monty’s new bed is bigger than the one he had when he shared the room with his mom, and that’s nice too. He feels farther away like this.

\--

Despite it all, not too many people were lost. There were casualties on both sides, but it wasn’t hundreds. Not even close. So the atmosphere of Arkadia isn’t as somber as Miller is. In fact, it’s joyous. There are celebrations for a week straight. People playing the guitar, dancing around fires, laughing and cheering and celebrating their life. Their freedom from the chip, from ALIE. He tries to cling to the feeling that so many others have but it’s like grasping for air.

\--

“You’re headed the wrong way,” Monty says. He’s leaning against the wall and his face is blank. Empty. Like Miller feels. Even full of alcohol, even with warmth sloshing in his stomach, he still feels empty. “Your quarters are in C-Block, I thought.”

“I’m staying with Bellamy,” Miller answers. Who’s in A-Block. Close to the important people. Miller’s father is in A-Block too, just down a different hallway. “You’re not in A-Block either,” he points out. Not even his new quarters with Jasper. They’re in B-Block, in a completely different part of camp. “What’re you doing here?”

“Had to walk Jasper to Med Bay,” Monty answers. Miller waits for him to elaborate. “The chip,” he says, “it… fried something in him, I guess. He gets twitchy, needs to be sedated.” Monty shrugs a shoulder. Jasper had been on the team that went into the City of Light. He was stronger, having been exposed to the effects of ALIE the longest on the outside. He kept his head on the inside. “Abby says it won’t be forever.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.” Monty glances down the hallway, dark and empty. Everything’s empty. “You’re staying with Bellamy?”

“On his couch,” Miller says. He doesn’t think about his old quarters. He hasn’t been there since the boy he shared them with was taken from him. Octavia went in to get his things. Miller wonders if Bryan’s stuff has been repurposed yet. “They’re looking to get me my own place,” Miller tells him.

Monty arches an eyebrow. “You want to live alone?” he asks.

“I don’t want to be a burden on anyone,” Miller mutters. Of course he doesn’t want to live alone. The sound of Bellamy’s breathing as he sleeps is comforting, it gives Miller something to focus on besides the aching in his chest. To know that someone who cares about him, who Miller cares about, is only feet away. That if Miller _wanted_ to talk (he does, he can’t), that Bellamy is there and would listen. “It’s…. whatever.”

Monty sighs. “Yeah.” Miller looks at him, _really_ looks at him for the first time since the war. There are dark bags under Monty’s eyes, his skin is pale and sallow. And he’s looking at Miller now too, studying him in the same way, probably drawing the same conclusions. _Broken. Empty_. Miller’s heart breaks all over again, but this time for the boy in front of him. He remembers the backlash that came when Monty shot his mom, the screaming and the agony and the pain. The pain. So much pain. And he just picked himself up and kept going. _Monty’s so strong,_ Miller thinks. Despite everything he’s been through he just keeps going. He’s holding them all together. “Hey,” Monty suddenly says. “You know that I’m here for you, right?”

Miller looks away. “It’s fine, Monty.”

“No, I am. Just like I know if I need you, you’d be here for me too. Right?” Miller forces himself to swallow before he looks back up and nods. Because it’s true. Ever since Mount Weather it’s been easy to talk to Monty, easy to listen to Monty. _Everything_ is easy with Monty, even when everything else feels so hard. He reaches out then, grabbing Miller’s wrist and tugging him toward him. “We don’t even have to talk,” Monty says. “Just being around you is enough.”

And when Monty touches him, though Miller _knows_ it’s not meant to stir anything up inside him, Miller feels a heat crawling up his arm. It climbs into his chest, something lovely and warm that feels terrifyingly close to something like _want_.

“I’m sorry,” Miller forces out. “That I haven’t… been around.”

Monty’s grip slips from Miller’s wrist to Miller’s hand. Their fingers don’t latch together, but Monty squeezes them reassuringly. “We’re all doing what we can,” Monty says.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around for _you_ ,” Miller adds. “Monty,” he says lowly. “You’re so—”

“Stop,” Monty cuts him off. His voice is soft but there’s power behind it, and Miller knows not to go into it. Monty drops his hand. “I have to get to my room.”

Miller nods, and Monty leaves him in the hallway.

\--

They find each other in the hallway again, and again, and again.

It becomes something like a pattern. Monty dropping Jasper off at the Med Bay, Miller stumbling home drunk, the two of them meeting in the middle. They talk, and they smile weakly, and they go along their way. They talk outside of the hallway too, Miller taking up Monty on his offer of _just being around_. Because being around Monty is nice. He doesn’t look at him like the rest of their friends do.

And finally, a few weeks later, Monty joins Miller by the fire. And they drink, and they talk, and they drink, and they drink. Their elbows knock as Miller remembers what it’s like to sit so close to someone, their fingers brush as they pass the bottle of moonshine back and forth. It’s not a lot of contact but it’s enough to remind Miller of someone he used to be.

He isn’t sure how it happens.

One moment they’re on the log by the fire, the next they’re in the hallway at their usual spot. Only they walked there together this time instead of meeting there. And they’re both filled with alcohol. Sloppy, reckless.

“I know my way back to Bellamy’s,” Miller says, his voice thick.

“Maybe we’re not going to Bellamy’s,” Monty returns. They linger in the hallway, Miller looking at him as though it’s impossible for Monty to even exist. It’s only been weeks but the physical wounds have healed. The scars, the scrapes, the bruises, they’re all gone. And Monty’s here, looking whole while Miller’s here feeling halved. “You doing okay, Nate?” he asks.

And it’s the _Nate_ that makes him shiver.

“No,” he admits. And Monty nods. “Are you?”

“No,” Monty echoes. Miller reaches out with one of his hands and Monty accepts it while Miller pulls him closer. “I want to be,” he whispers. Miller blinks a few times. He licks his lips. “I really want to be okay.”

“How can I help?” Miller asks. Because he wants Monty to be okay, too. They mirror each other in the sense that they both lost someone they love, that they both have blood on their hands. But Monty’s so much better than Miller is, even after the things he’s done. Monty deserves to be okay. Monty deserves to heal. “I want to help.”

“I don’t know,” Monty says. They’re both so quiet, so close. Miller’s looking at Monty’s mouth and he licks lips again, wanting more than just to help Monty feel better.

He wants to feel something too.

And something about Monty makes Miller feel alive again. Something about Monty casts out the darkness that has settled in Miller’s stomach, that has wound its way around his veins. And Miller craves it. He craves that feeling, that light, that hope. He craves the feel of Monty’s hand in his, skin on skin, fingers brushing or elbows knocking. He craves _Monty_. And if Miller was in a different state of mind, if he was sober, if he wasn’t so bent on feeling _alive_ again, he never would’ve done it.

Because he needs more time. And Monty deserves better.

But he’s _not_ sober, and he _is_ needy, and he _does_ crave Monty. So he steps toward Monty with hands outstretched, cupping Monty’s cheeks carefully (because Miller’s broken, broken, and he doesn’t want Monty to break under his touch) and tips his chin back so he can lean in, pressing his mouth to his. Just once. One kiss. That’s all. To remember what it feels like to not be drowning. To feel something other than darkness. But Monty blooms under him, reaching out and fisting Miller’s shirt and yanking him closer as though he’s chasing the feeling of sunlight too. His lips respond as once, moving against Miller’s, and any plan to pull away is completely thrown out the window.

What was meant to be quick, temporary, soft, shifts into something desperate very quickly.

Miller steps forward so he can be closer and his hips line up perfectly with Monty’s, and when Monty groans into Miller’s mouth Miller wonders how darkness even exists. The sound is so brilliant, so warm, so _bright_ that Miller wants to hear it again and again, to cast all of the shadows from the dark corners of his mind.  Miller’s hips jerk forward again, desperate for that sound, but this time Monty gasps and the feeling inside Miller is even _more_.

But as Miller goes to do it again, rolling his hips, hoping for a new sound, Monty pulls away. It’s not far, he doesn’t push Miller back or drop his hands from Miller’s shirt, but it still feels like they’re miles apart. To fix this Miller drops his forehead to Monty’s, dipping in enough that their noses bump.

Monty exhales his name. “ _Nate_.” Soft. Curious. And Miller can hear the question there. _What is this? What are we doing?_ But Miller doesn’t have an answer, and he’s sure Monty doesn’t either. Because when he leans in to kiss Monty again he responds in kind, kissing him back as though he received an answer anyway. Monty’s hands ease up Miller’s shirt, his warm capable fingers tracing across his skin, and Miller needs more. He wants _more_.

He’s the one to pull back this time, kissing across Monty’s chin, his jaw, so he can be closer to his ear. “Is Jasper…?” he asks. Is he home? And Monty shakes his head. No, he’s not. “ _Monty_ ,” Miller breathes. “I…”

Monty nods this time, and his hand reaches out for Miller’s. They tangle their fingers together and hurry down the hallway toward Monty’s quarters while Miller’s heart is humming. With every beat he feels more like who he used to be, more whole. Wanted. They reach Monty’s compartment in no time and the moment the heavy metal door is shut they’re at it again.

Miller’s pressed against the wall this time and Monty’s hands slip under his shirt another time, only now they grab the hem and pull, tugging Miller’s shirt upwards. And Miller knows what that means, what Monty wants, so he leans and breaks away from Monty’s mouth as he yanks it over his head and tosses it to the side. Monty’s hands skim up Miller’s chest then the feeling is so overwhelmingly _good_ that it’s hard for Miller to even think straight.

Part of him says _stop, don’t do this_ , but it’s a whisper and it’s so quiet and so easily overshadowed by the cry for _more_ that’s echoing inside of him.

And then they’re stumbling over one another as they make their way to Monty’s bed. Clothes are shed and hands are wandering and hips are thrusting. Miller’s hand wraps around him and Monty gasps, arching his back and collapsing into the pillows, gripping the sheets and groaning. When he comes he’s breathless, and then without much time to recover Monty’s returning the favor.

Miller doesn’t remember the last time he felt like this, so whole and warm and _right_ , and he can’t even bear to think about it at this moment. Monty tugs and Miller whines, gasping out Monty’s name as he rocks his hips. “Monty, _Monty_ ,” again and again as he sucks hard on Monty’s collarbone, nipping at the skin there, nuzzling into his neck. _Yes, yes_.

“Come on, Nate,” Monty rasps, his voice raw with desire, and Miller moans against Monty’s throat. “Come on.”

“Monty,” he breathes again, and Monty tugs his chin up for a chaste kiss. And when Miller comes, falling to pieces in Monty’s hands, the air is full of static.

\--

They lay there for a long time.

After cleaning themselves off they lay there long enough for their sweat to cool. For the air to become thick with silence. For the darkness to settle back inside of their chests.

Monty knows Miller isn’t asleep. He hasn’t moved in a few minutes, barely breathing, but he’s not asleep. And then it happens quickly, suddenly, Miller sitting up and pushing himself to the edge of the mattress. And then Monty’s sitting up too. “Nate, just—” he doesn’t want Miller to go. Not like this. “ _Wait_ ,” Monty pleads. And Miller pauses long enough that Monty has time to reach out, his hand resting on Miller’s arm. Miller turns and there’s something in his eyes that makes Monty feel broken. “It shouldn’t have happened like this,” Monty says softly.

“It shouldn’t have,” Miller agrees.

Monty wishes he was still drunk. Or still _felt_ drunk. But the situation makes his limbs feel heavy and makes his mind feel sharp. And he aches. God, he aches.

“But I don’t—” Monty starts weakly, pulling his hand back so he can run it through his hair. “Maybe _you_ regret this, but I…” Monty trails off, shaking his head. “If you were using me to cope, I get that.”

“Monty.”

“I _do_ ,” Monty insists. “And maybe—maybe I was using you too. But, Nate, I—I’ve got to be honest with you, and—”

“ _Monty_.”

“—I’ve got feelings for you,” he carries on, listening as his voice cracks. As broken as he feels. “And this… I don’t know. I don’t know.”

The waves of guilt and regret crash inside of him to the point in which tears are welling up in his eyes. Miller reaches out, his own eyes shining in the dim lighting, and grabs Monty’s hand. “I wouldn’t do that do you,” Miller says lowly. “I’d never do that to you, Monty. I wasn’t using you to cope.” Monty can’t look at him but he clings to Miller’s words like they’re a life raft. “I feel guilty,” Miller chokes out. “Because I want you. Fuck, I—I wanted _this_ , but my…” he trails off. He takes a deep breath. “ _Bryan_ ,” he exhales.

Monty blinks hard to stop himself from crying. “I know.”

Miller shifts so he’s facing Monty head-on again. “You deserve better than this, better than what I can give you,” Miller manages to say. His voice is wet and Monty wants to look at him so badly but he _can’t_. “I’m so _fucked_ ,” Miller rasps.

“Stop it.”

“I _am_ ,” he carries on. He squeezes Monty’s hands. “And you—you just—you’re so fucking strong, Monty, and—”

“ _Stop it_ ,” Monty croaks. “I’m _not_.”

“You _are_. And I—God, I love that about you.” Monty drags his hands through his hair again, shaking his head. “And I want you. And I want this. But it’s so soon, it’s so soon, and everything _hurts_ , Monty. It hurts so fucking bad.” Monty lifts his hand and swats at his eyes. It was so much easier when he just felt empty. This unceasing aching is too heavy for him to hold. “I don’t know what to do,” Miller admits, that same aching in his voice that Monty feels.

They’re both quiet for a moment and Monty sniffs, blinking hard again.

“I knew,” Monty finally says. “That we shouldn’t have. That I should’ve—we should’ve stopped.” There’s so much pressure behind his eyes and numbness in his hands that Monty isn’t even thinking straight. “Because when you said _my_ name…  God, I was so _relieved_ …” Relieved that it wasn’t someone else’s name in Miller’s mouth. That he knew it was Monty touching him, not a boy who’s gone. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“No, stop,” Miller reaches out for him. “I _wanted_ you, Monty. It’s—I wasn’t pretending like you were someone else, that you were _him_ , I… I wanted _you_. I knew it was you. I wanted it to be you. The whole time.” And even as Miller’s saying it, Monty isn’t sure if he believes him. He doesn’t know if he can believe him. Miller’s hand curves around Monty’s cheek and his thumb brushes below his eye. “Monty,” he says gently. “This is a mess.” Monty wants so badly to believe him. He leans into Miller’s touch. “Can I stay?” Miller finally asks.

Monty looks up at him. “You want to stay?”

“If you want me to,” Miller murmurs. His voice is still thick, his thumb is still soft against Monty’s cheek. Monty nods. Miller climbs back into bed. It still feels as though someone’s dipped their hands into Monty’s chest and ripped out his lungs. Like he’s empty. But Miller’s closer now, and the room doesn’t feel as cold. “I’m sorry,” Miller whispers.

Monty isn’t sure if it’s an apology meant for him.

\--

It doesn’t happen again.

\--

Miller’s packing his things in Bellamy’s quarters. He’s finally gotten a new room assignment, and Miller thinks that maybe Bellamy asked Kane to take a long time in doing so. Because he thinks Miller’s broken, and Bellamy wants to be there for him. Which is nice, in theory. But Miller’s glad to get out of Bellamy’s hair.

Bellamy’s not.

“I just want you to know,” Bellamy says from where he’s standing in the doorway, “that you’re my best friend. And I’m here for you.”

Miller shifts his bag on his shoulder. He doesn’t look up at Bellamy. “I know,” Miller murmurs.

“And if you ever—fuck, Miller, my couch is always open to you, okay?” Miller dips his head into a nod, but still doesn’t look up at Bellamy. “I just—I’m here for you.”

Miller waits a beat. He swallows. He shifts his bag on his shoulder again. “It feels like I’m drowning,” Miller says. Bellamy doesn’t move, and neither does Miller. “And every time I get closer to learning how to swim, I just sink again.” They’re both quiet for another moment and Miller grits his teeth. “Any time I get close to feeling _something_ I just feel guilty again. _Bryan dove in front of a bullet for me_.” Saying it out loud, hearing it in his ears, makes Miller crumble again. He shifts on his feet before stumbling, barely making it to the couch before dropping his head into his hands and sucking back a sob. “He died for _me_ ,” Miller carries on as Bellamy crosses the room to sit next to him. “And it feels like I’m drowning.”

Miller tries to focus on his breathing but it comes in gasps, frantic and inconsistent. Bellamy lowers his hand gently to Miller’s shoulder.

“He’d want you to be happy,” Bellamy says. _Be happy_. Miller shatters again, caving in on himself. Bellamy scoots closer. “He gave you this chance, Miller,” Bellamy murmurs. “To keep going. To move on.”

“It doesn’t feel fair,” Miller rasps.

“No, I know.” Bellamy squeezes his shoulder. “Because it’s not fair. It’s never going to be fair. But you can’t change what’s happened, either.” Miller lets out a long breath, trying to exhale this aching too. It doesn’t go anywhere. “It’ll take some time,” Bellamy tells him. Miller nods. “But I’m here.”

Miller hopes it can be enough.

\--

Jasper’s snoring.

And normally, Monty can handle it. But not tonight. He gathers his things and creeps out of the quarters he shares with his best friend and wanders down the empty halls of Arkadia. His feet carry him to Miller’s new room.

Monty hesitates. But eventually he knocks. And eventually Miller opens the door. And eventually they lay down side by side in Miller’s new bed. They’re closer to the generator here and there’s a humming in the air that Monty finds comforting. They’re both quiet. And that’s okay.

Miller reaches out and traces the dips and curves of Monty’s cheek with the pad of his finger. “I want to be okay,” Miller whispers to him. “I’m just not there yet.”

Monty agrees. He’s covered in goosebumps. “Me neither.”

“But I want you around,” Miller adds. Monty forces himself to swallow. Miller pulls back his hand. “And I want to be here for you. Without… without everything that we did.” Monty’s eyes fall shut and he nods. “Not that I didn’t enjoy it.”

“Nate.”

“Because I did,” Miller continues. “More than I should’ve. Because the world is shit, now, and feeling anything remotely _good_ makes me feel garbage.”

“ _Nate_.”

“But eventually,” Miller adds. “Because I like you.” Monty sighs. His eyes are still shut. Miller lifts his hand again, tracing across Monty’s nose. “I like you,” Miller whispers. “And I want you. Because when I’m with you, in any capacity, I feel like myself again.”

Monty doesn’t know what to say. So he asks, “Why?”

Why is Monty the one who’s able to make him feel like that? Why is Monty the one who cast the shadows away? Why is he the one who can remind Miller of who he used to be? And Monty doesn’t say it, but how can Miller do the same for him? How can a moment with Miller make him feel incrementally more whole than Monty did in the moments previous?

“You don’t look at me like I’m broken,” Miller tells him.

Monty eases his eyes open. _It’s because you’re not_ , Monty wants to say. _Just hurting. Just aching_. But Miller doesn’t look at him like he’s broken either. Just Monty and Miller, two boys who’ve been thrown into hell and clawed their way back to earth. Two boys trying to teach themselves how to breathe again after being under water for too long.

“Can I stay tonight?” Monty asks.

Miller blinks a few times. “Please,” he whispers.

Monty kicks off his shoes and climbs under the covers. Miller pulls him close. “I want to stay,” Monty murmurs into Miller’s collarbone. He wants to stick around until they can figure it out what to do next. How to feel. How to heal. Where to go. What it’s like to not feel guilty for grasping happiness.

“I want you to stay, too,” Miller exhales.

Monty falls asleep in Miller’s arms. They wake up in the morning tangled together, their ankles twisted and their arms looped around. The sunlight streams through the window here.

They think they might just make it, after all.


End file.
